First, he had to get away from the column without being spotted; he didn’t want any of the smugglers to get the idea that he was trying to aid Juddery against them. He stumbled again, this time by design, and fell back further still. The porters, still jeering and yelling at the Excise men, ignored him. He staggered again, and this time contrived to trip and lie still. The column passed on, and the last of the chanting, yelling men vanished into the darkness ahead of him. He lay still for a few minutes in case there were any outliers, and then rose cautiously to his feet.
A horse came up out of the darkness and nearly knocked him over. He managed to jump aside and the horse whinnied and reared up; the rider cursed it and him, bringing the animal down onto four legs again. He realised dimly that it was a woman’s voice. ‘Clumsy oaf! You had better get moving. Your column is heading off without you!’
His head rang and he stared up at the woman on horseback, cloaked and masked in black, a phantom against the starlight.
‘Miss Fanscombe?’
She gasped, and steadied the horse. ‘Reverend Hardcastle! Whatever are you doing out here?’
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he said severely, his voice still slurring.
‘I came to watch the fun,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Oh look! They are shooting again! Oh, it is exciting! Go on, brave Gentlemen!’ she shouted. ‘Push the Excise back! Ah, see, they are running with their tails between their legs!’
‘Miss Fanscombe,’ he said, struggling to control his voice, ‘I need your help. I need to get to Mr Juddery. And . . . I am having some trouble walking.’
‘You mean, you are drunk,’ she said with scorn in her voice. ‘I can smell it from here. You can crawl to Juddery, I’m not going near him. I am following the Gentlemen.’
‘Miss Fanscombe,’ the rector said desperately, ‘do you recall the story you told us after Foucarmont had abused you? What he and Blunt were planning? Well, that plan is about to be carried into effect. Even as we speak, Blunt and Foucarmont are laying an ambush for the Twelve Apostles. The only force that can stop them now is Mr Juddery’s Excise men. Will you help me?’ And he added, ‘It would be a fitting revenge on Foucarmont.’
The girl made up her mind in a split second. ‘Climb up behind me. Quickly. Now, hold on.’
He scrambled somehow across the back of the horse and managed to sit upright, and rather gingerly put an arm around her waist. He felt the butt of the pistol she carried in a saddle holster, and then she shook the reins and the horse lurched into motion, nearly pitching him back over its tail. He clung desperately to the girl as the horse cantered away across the marshland, splashed through a ditch and then careered on through the darkness. He could not see where they were going, and could only hope that Eliza Fanscombe had truly decided to help him and was not carrying him straight to Blunt.
He had his answer soon enough. He heard shouts ahead. ‘Who’s that coming? Hi, there! Halt, in the name of the King!’
He slid off the horse to the ground and fell over. By the time he had staggered upright, Juddery was there, shadowy in the starlight with a pistol in each hand. ‘What is this? Who are you?’
‘It is Hardcastle,’ the rector gasped.
‘Reverend Hardcastle! What are you doing here? My God, man, you’re drunk!’
‘No. I mean, yes. No, I mean— Blast it all, Juddery, I’ll explain later. Look here! Somewhere up north of us, a group of men in government service are landing on the coast. They are bringing some vital secret into the country – vital, I tell you! It could concern the French invashion. Invasion. Blunt is working with a French spy, and he is up there with at least forty men, ready to ambush them and prevent the secret getting through. I tell you, we must get up there and stop Blunt.’
‘Blunt, you say!’ In the starlight, he fancied Juddery’s eyes had narrowed. He wondered how much of the rest of his narrative had even been heard. Around him the Excise men growled with pleasure. ‘We’ve only twenty men,’ said Juddery.
‘Never mind that,’ snarled a voice. ‘Any Excise man is worth ten of those scaly bastards from Customs. Let’s get at ’em.’
There was a roar of assent. ‘All right,’ said Juddery. ‘Go quietly, lads. We’ll get the drop on them, likely enough. Where do you reckon they’ll be, Rector?’
‘Inland from Greatstone. About half a mile.’ He reeled again as he spoke, but his head was beginning to clear at last.
‘They’ll have to get around the lagoon,’ said Juddery. ‘They’ll probably go north about, to avoid running into us. If we circle around and come in from the west, we can push Blunt straight into the lagoon. All right, lads, move, and remember – quietly!’
They moved, spreading out into a skirmish line with Juddery roughly in the centre, loping through the starlight and the rector panting and stumbling after him. After a few minutes he realised that Eliza Fanscombe was following, trotting her horse some distance behind and keeping them in sight. He cursed, hoping her horse and its noise did not give the game away. When they plunged into another fog bank he thought they might lose her, but no; she followed them out of the fog into more starlight. A few lights glowed dimly to the north, and he realised that this was New Romney; New Romney, where someone had half-poisoned him by someone putting raw spirit into his beer, and then knocked him over the head. How long ago had that been? He had lost all track of time.
*
The stars glimmered faintly in the misty sky overhead. Gasping and wheezing, he collided with Juddery, who had halted.
‘Blunt’s men are up ahead, hidden in the grass or in the sewer that runs into the lagoon,’ Juddery was whispering fiercely to his men. ‘Silcock, take half the men and get out to the right to cut them off. I’ll take the rest straight in and hit them from behind.’
‘Take them alive,’ gasped the rector. ‘Most of the Customs men don’t know about the plot; it’s Blunt that we want. Don’t shoot unless you must.’
‘That depends on Blunt’s men, Reverend. If they shoot, we’ll shoot back. All right, lads. Ready—’
From somewhere up ahead there was a hissing noise, like a snake preparing to strike. Suddenly light exploded across the Marsh, an eerie, shivering, unearthly blue light that showed the scene before them in garish contrast. The light glowed off a column of men making their way silently across the Marsh, masked and hooded men with weapons cradled in their arms. Nearer at hand, other men crouched in the grass and the ditch, their own weapons levelled.
‘What the hell is that?’ gasped Juddery.
‘False fire,’ said the rector. ‘Oh, dear God. We are too late.’
Gunfire erupted like a thunderstorm. From their hidden positions on three sides, Blunt’s men poured fire on the column of men. The latter dived for cover, and Hardcastle could see some of them wriggling across the ground, others coolly returning fire, but some were lying very still. He could hear Blunt yelling at his men, urging them to complete the encirclement and then close in. Another flare erupted, its evil blue light glaring across the Marsh.
Rage roared in the rector’s mind. The alcohol swimming in his blood caught light and burned blue as the false fire. He clenched his fists, bellowing his fury, and then to the astonishment of the Excise men he charged across the fields towards Blunt’s men, still roaring incoherently. ‘After him!’ screamed Juddery, and the Excise men charged too, and even as the bewildered Customs officers turned to see what the commotion was, furious shapes wielding cudgels raced out of the dark and fell on them. A Customs man sprang to his feet; Hardcastle felled him with one furious blow of his fist, then grabbed the pistol the man had dropped and reversed it to use as a club. When the pistol was knocked from his hand he picked up a cudgel someone had dropped and laid about him, lashing out indiscriminately at anyone who came near him, blundering on through the fray with no thought at all in his mind except to hit and hit and hit again.
Gunfire crashed and boomed, pistols fired at point-blank range. The Twelve Apostles had gathered themselves
and charged into the melee too, seeking to break out of the trap. Pistol balls whizzed around Hardcastle, clubs lashed at him, but nothing touched him. He felled two men with his own cudgel, not knowing or caring which side they were on. He turned as a someone shrieked a warning behind him and saw a Customs man kneeling and aiming a pistol straight at him, his face a rictus of rage and fear, but before the other man could fire a dark phantom rode out of the night into the shivering blue flame and the rider lashed the weapon from the Customs man’s hand with her riding crop. Dropping the whip as the man spun away clutching at his arm, she drew her own pistol and fired it blindly into the air, screaming again like a banshee as she rode on through the press.
The rector roared in response. He ran towards the nearest knot of struggling men, aiming to join in the fray, but then tripped over something lying before him. He fell heavily, the ground coming up to slam against his chin. Lights flashed in front of his eyes, and then darkness enveloped him once more.
19
Peter Removes His Mask
Consciousness returned gradually. The first sensations came from his own body; his head throbbed like a steam engine, and his body seemed to be a single mass of pain. His mouth was dry and felt as if it was full of ash. Then, as his mind cleared a little more, he became aware of the world around him. All was quiet nearby, though from the west he could hear distant shouts and the occasional shot echoing across the fields. The false fires had gone out, and the Marsh lay dim and shadowy under the stars.
Suddenly he felt sick again. He lay still while the sickness passed, and then became aware that part of the pain in his body came from something beneath him, an object with sharp protrusions that were digging into his belly. He dragged himself slowly to his hands and knees, and then scrabbled in the darkness until he found the object again. It was a leather satchel with a folding cover, and the protrusions he had felt were the heavy buckles of the straps that kept the cover closed.
He remembered then that he had tripped over something, and turned to look. It was a body, a hooded and masked man in black lying sprawled face down in the mud. He reached out and touched the man’s arm. His skin was still warm, but there was no heartbeat. One of the Twelve Apostles had made his last run.
The rector staggered to his feet, clutching the leather satchel. Away to the west, silence had fallen. He wondered how many of the other Apostles had been killed. Sickness washed over him once more as he realised that he had failed. The ambush had been sprung. Blunt and Foucarmont had won.
Well. Perhaps not entirely. Juddery’s men had distracted Blunt, at the very least, and it was possible that some of the Apostles had escaped in the confusion. At that very moment more gunfire broke out again, far away now, and he heard a distant confused shouting and yelling as men joined battle once more. The rector felt suddenly cold, and knew that he had to get away, get to his home. Then he heard more voices, very close at hand.
‘Search the area. Quickly. We got at least two of the bastards, and one of them might have been carrying it.’
The voice was Blunt’s. Another voice said, ‘It is dark. We’ll need to light a lantern.’
‘Do it. The others are far away now.’
The rector sank quickly to the ground and lay down once more on top of the dispatch case, face down. Fifty yards away a lantern hissed into life. From the corner of his eye he saw two men moving slowly towards him.
‘What are we looking for, Mr Blunt?’
‘A bag or case. Anything that might be used for carrying papers. God damn Juddery! We had them pinned down. We had them right where we wanted them, and then that maniac showed up.’
‘What was the fool doing? Could he not tell who we were?’
‘God knows. He’s an Excise man, they haven’t a brain between them. He’s gone too far this time, though. I’ll settle him for good . . . Oh, for God’s sake! Here comes the fog again.’
White vapour drifted over the scene, blotting out the men from the rector’s vision. ‘I can’t see my hand in front of my face,’ said the man with the lantern.
‘All right, all right. We’ll leave it for now, but we’re coming back at first light.’
The voices receded. Breathing a silent prayer to the merciful God who had sent the fog, the rector struggled to his feet again and set off across the Marsh, north towards St Mary.
*
The cocks were crowing and the eastern horizon was pale with light when he reached the rectory. The front door had been bolted and he had to knock hard, several times, to wake the housekeeper. Finally he heard her trembling voice behind the door and called reassuringly, ‘It is only me, Mrs Kemp. Kindly let me in.’
He heard the bolts being drawn, and the door opened. The housekeeper took one look at the spectre that stood before her, dripping with water and mud, dried blood streaking one side of his face, his hat gone and his hair standing on end, and screamed.
‘Heaven help us, Reverend Hardcastle! Is it you, dead and come back as a ghost?’
‘I assure you, Mrs Kemp, that I am very much alive. I apologise for the inconvenience at this hour, but will you kindly heat some water for a bath? And coffee would be very welcome.’
‘Oh, Lord save us!’ Clearly not entirely convinced that he was not a spectre, she went off to the kitchen. Hardcastle struggled upstairs and slowly peeled off his ruined clothes. His head ached, and he winced when he touched his scalp where he had been clubbed in New Romney, half a lifetime ago. He scrubbed away some of the blood and mud and slowly drew on his nightshirt and dressing gown.
Then, while he waited for his bathwater, he went down to the study carrying the leather satchel. He unlocked the cabinet and poured a brimming glass of cognac, drank it down and filled another, and then hobbled stiffly to the desk to look down at his prize.
The satchel was bound, as he had guessed in the dark, by two leather straps held by heavy buckles. It was further secured by a third strap attached to the first two below the buckles, and on this were two locks. To open the first two straps the third would have to be removed, and to do this required a key for the locks.
He did not have the key. He rang the bell and asked Mrs Kemp to bring him a very sharp knife. She returned with this a moment later, along with a steaming pot of coffee and a cup. She was bursting with questions, but he shooed her out of the room and closed the door behind her. Then he slit the bottom of the satchel, a task which took some time and effort as the leather was quite thick. Finally he drew out the contents, a slim packet of sheets of paper covered with neat writing.
Seated quietly at his desk, the rector read the papers. They were written in French, and he understood at once why Blunt had been searching for them, and why the Twelve Apostles had been prepared to kill, and die, to get these papers safely through to London. There were about forty pages in all, closely written with a great many facts and figures and numbers. At the end was the signature of a man whose name the rector knew from the newspapers; Lazare Carnot, a member of the Directory and also the French Minister of War.
‘Well, well,’ he said quietly, staring at the wall. ‘Blunt hasn’t won after all.’
*
Sunday morning, the day after the run, dawned silently and peacefully. The rising sun dispersed the Marsh mists and with them the skeins of powder smoke that still hung in the air. The combatants had long since departed, and the bodies had been taken away; the white-faced sheep could graze once again in peace.
The rector woke from a short sleep riddled with bad dreams, his head and body shuddering with pain. He washed and dressed slowly, instructed the housekeeper to keep breakfast for him and went out and hobbled down the street to Mrs Chaytor’s house. The housekeeper, looking frightened, admitted him. He found Eugénie Fanscombe in the drawing room. She did not look as if she had slept at all.
‘I beg your pardon for intruding at such an early hour. I wished to know whether your stepdaughter had returned.’
The small woman shook her head. ‘Not yet. Did you find any
trace of her?’
‘I did more than that,’ said the rector. ‘I saw her last night. She had followed the smugglers.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Eugénie Fanscombe, and she collapsed into a chair, her face a picture of misery. ‘I must ask you,’ said the rector. ‘Has she done this before?’
‘No. She has talked of it sometimes, but I do not think she had ever dared to actually go out.’
The rector doubted this, very much, but he was hardly going to add to the poor woman’s misery now. She looked up at him, her dark eyes wet and her face softened by sorrow.
‘Oh, Reverend Hardcastle, please bring her back to me.’ The voice was a moan of despair, ending in a choked-off sob. He considered all of the things he had to do within the next few hours; but this was a mission of mercy that he could not refuse.
‘I will do what I can,’ he said gently. ‘It will not be easy for you to effect a reconciliation with her. You know that.’
‘I will do anything. Anything. I love her, Reverend Hardcastle. And I have nothing else to love. My marriage of fifteen years is at an end. I had two children of my own after I was married, but both were stillborn. Eliza is all that I have.’
How terribly we misunderstand other people, the rector thought as he let himself out, and how woefully I in particular have misunderstood the tortured life that went on under the Fanscombe roof . . . He limped up the drive to New Hall, the big house standing quiet in the still, silent morning; when he knocked at the door he fancied the noise could be heard all over the village.
‘I am here to see Miss Fanscombe.’
‘She is asleep, sir,’ said the maidservant who answered, looking more frightened than ever.
‘Then wake her, and send her down to me at once. I will not accept no for an answer.’
The Body on the Doorstep Page 24